The Storm
by Just Chasing Rainbows
Summary: Emma's world has fallen apart, and nothing can change that. With storm clouds still overheard, she has to face her future.
1. Chapter 1

**This is one of two ideas that just will not leave me alone. I hope that it is ok :-)**

It is with a sigh of defeat that Emma finds herself rolling out of bed, the clock on the table tormenting her with the knowledge that it is 2:33am; a time when she should still be fast asleep. She hasn't been sleeping properly for weeks; her body waking her in the small hours and then allowing her to slip back in to her dream world just before her alarm sounds crash in to her consciousness. She has presumed it is the start of menopause, that she is headed towards night sweats. It was only a matter of time before it happened, and this time it would continue without interruption.

It had taken her weeks after Howard's death, and the miscarriage, for her sleeping pattern to return to anything remotely normal. A double bed had felt cold and empty without Howard's body by her side, though she had spent so few nights with it there. Still her body expected it. That was how their lives were meant to play out; they would fall asleep nestled against the other each night, and wake together the next morning. They would have taken turns to slip for the warm cocoon of the duvet to see to their baby, though he would have to wake her to provide the feeds. Still she could imagine him sat up beside her, talking through his plans and strategies as she tried not to fall back to sleep with the baby against her chest. She has thought of this scenario often, it slips unbidden in to her dreams and causes her to wake hopeful that it will come to pass. It is then that the crushing reality will hit her, and she is faced once more with the pain.

It is those few seconds on waking that are the worst. The ones where she can almost feel the warmth of his body beside her, or hear the sound of him moving around the bedroom. She can in those moments almost feel her body shape changed by their child's growth. She has woken to find her hands against her abdomen, and felt a momentary panic when she couldn't feel the swell of a gravid uterus. She had swallowed back a strangled cry when she had realised it was her mind playing tricks on her; that she hasn't been pregnant for nigh on 23 weeks.

Now though it wasn't the cruelty of her own mind working against her, or the cold space in the bed that led to her being so awake at this hour. Nor was she working up a sweat and cursing her body. Sleep had not been forthcoming at all that night. She had hoped that slipping beneath the covers would convince her body to rest, but she had lain awake; occasionally shooting a glance at the clock confused at the strange passage of time.

She had not felt right for the last two days, but there was nothing remarkable about her symptoms. Niamh had made a passing remarking about her pallor, which Mrs Tembe had helpfully agreed with. They had muttered something about there being a lot around this time of year as though that would make this better. But she couldn't even put it down to one of the many illness that had seen her patient load increase dramatically over the last two weeks. She was just run down that was all; the lack of sleep a high contributing factor.

She slips as quietly as she can from her bedroom. There is no point in disturbing the girls from their slumbers. She doesn't know what she would have done without them over the last few months. But she does not want to bother them any more than she has too. She shouldn't have too now, not when so long as passed. That is what people think when they see her still not fully functioning; it is not as though she lost a husband, or even a partner – for their relationship was in such an early stage; but they didn't know the truth. They didn't understand that she had lost a child as well, and with that an entire future had slipped through her fingers. There were times when she had felt like screaming but she had always held herself back, trying to keep behind the carefully composed façade.

As quietly as she can manage, she starts to make herself a cup of tea. Outside she can just about making out the shapes of trees being thrashed around by the wind, while the window is dappled by rain. Perhaps she can blame the raging storm outside for her lack of sleep. By the time the kettle has boiled, and she has poured the steaming liquid in to the cup, she cannot face the drink. How many cups of tea has she swallowed since Howard's death? It seemed to be everyone's cure for all that happened. Nothing could be done without a cup in hand. She wasn't even all that fond of tea. She preferred coffee, but that had been out of the question when she was pregnant. Even after, they had given her tea instead. Even now.

Not that she would have been able to face coffee right now. She had always liked the smell in the past. There was something comforting about it. When she'd been pregnant with Chris, she had craved it; not the drink itself but the smell of a freshly brewed cup of strong black coffee. Now though, she finds herself swallowing hard when faced with it. The girls had definitely noticed. They didn't seem to rely quite so heavily on the drink to get them going in to morning; or perhaps they were leaving it until they were safely at work. Not that they should have to adjust everything for her.

Frowning she settled herself at the table. She wasn't even sure how long she'd been up, nor does she have any desire to look at the clock. Her eyes fall on the wall calendar. It is all together possible that this is her body's build up to her next period. They've been erratic since the baby and she cannot quite bring to mind when the last one was. Not that its matters really, not now.

Her eyes bore in to the calendar, scanning each little box until her gaze comes to stop on one date. She wishes she could rip it away; as though tearing it from that page would prevent her having to live through it. The day her baby should have been born. It was emblazoned in her mind. Saturday 16th April 2016. Saturday's child. Her mind scans through the old rhyme – Saturday's child works hard for a living. That sounds so like a child of her and Howard. She can almost imagine a child so like a miniature version of Howard, playing office while the proud father watched on. Howard would have adored their child. He had adored them.

It was so unfair. She shouldn't have had to bury Howard, or face the loss of her child. She'd been so single minded in her determination to carry on as normal. She'd ignored Ruhma's attempts to counsel her, nor did she ever return for the follow up she was supposed to have. She was a doctor. She knew without being told by another professional that it was over. Instead she had tried to keep going. The girls had tried to get her to open up; to talk through her feelings. But she couldn't. It wasn't her way.

"Are you alright?" Startling slightly, Emma looks up to find a rather bleary eyed Niamh standing in the doorway, a dressing gown wrapped tightly around her body in an attempt to block out the winter chill.

"I'm fine," It is her stock answer. One that she is able to deliver with conviction, even when she is feeling anything but. If she answered truthfully, she is certain she'd shatter in to a million pieces; and really nobody wanted to know the truth. They just wanted the reassurance that she was fine so that they could move on. It was a duty to ask, "What're you doing up?" A quick glance towards the window, tells Emma that it is still the small hours of the morning.

"I could ask you the same question," but Niamh doesn't need to ask. She knows that Emma hasn't been sleeping properly. It's written in her face, no matter how hard she tries to disguise it. They don't acknowledge it, "I couldn't sleep," Emma knows that the younger doctor is lying, but what right does she have to question when she lies so much herself.

"You don't have to stay up with me," It's a Saturday. For once Niamh doesn't have to have her alarm set, and Emma doesn't want her to lose out on a decent night's sleep on her account. But Niamh simply shakes her head, and moves further in to the room, heading towards the kettle to make a drink. Chances are she'll make one for each of them.

"Like I said I couldn't sleep," Niamh keeps her back to Emma as she works on making the drinks, "But don't feel you have to stay up with me either," She speaks softly. Although she has barely said it, Emma doesn't know what she would have done without the younger doctor. She had almost mothered her in the early days, trying to make sure that she ate and drank. She did it without being asked, and for very little thanks. She had put up with the worst sides of Emma without complaint, and even now is making sacrifices.

The next thing Emma knows, Niamh is placing a mug down in front of her. Steam spiralling in to the air. Slowly she wraps her hands around it, trying to pull some of the warmth in to her own body but it has no affect. She can't remember ever having felt this cold. But she is not really cold. Her body temperature keeps fluctuating, to the point where she isn't certain what she is. She raises the mug and takes a careful sip. Almost instantly she regrets it, rather hastily placing the mug back down she closes her eyes in an attempt to fight against the nausea.

"Emma," she feels Niamh's hand come to rest on top of hers, but she is too busy trying to stop her body reacting to the tiny amount of liquid she had ingested. She is all too aware that she makes a terrible patient, and she has no desire to put Niamh in the position of having to care for her, any more than she already has. In those few weeks when she had been plagued by pregnancy symptoms, Niamh had covered for her. She'd been sympathetic in the mornings when she'd find herself trapped in the bathroom, leaving the girls waiting. It is enough that even now Niamh seems to have taken it upon herself to provide her with proper meals; even though her diet has improved immeasurably. Not that she should be thinking about food right now.

"I'm just not feeling great," She finally manages to say the words. She doesn't fully understand why the small sip of tea had nearly sent her in the direction of the toilet. She's been nauseous on and off, but she hasn't come so close to vomiting. And last night she had struggled to eat the meal Niamh had prepared, but she hadn't felt sick exactly. She just didn't feel that she could eat anything more than she did. It's probably just her fluctuating hormone levels trying to sort themselves out.

"Why don't we put a film on, laze about for a bit," Niamh doesn't even wait for her to answer, before she starts to move. By the time Emma has managed to persuade her protesting body to stand up and walk, the younger doctor has settled herself down on the sofa with a blanket – which seems to have appeared out of nowhere unless Emma had taken longer than she thought – and has a film all ready to go.

"We'll have to be careful not to wake Ayesha," Emma is cautious as she lowers herself down, trying to settle in to a position that is comfortable and finding it much harder than anticipated. Niamh presses play and the film bursts in to life. Some musical that Emma hasn't heard of but which both girls had wanted to watch.

"Nah she could sleep through anything," Emma finds that she cannot concentrate on the films action. She keeps her eyes trained on the screen, but she doesn't hear the words that come from the actor's lips. She tries to force herself to respond appropriately but that proves near impossible when you have little idea of what is going on. She would normally take her lead for Niamh, but almost 35 minutes in to the film, she realises that the Irish doctor has fallen asleep. She doesn't look at all comfortable. Emma finds that her fingers itch towards tucking the blanket around her, or easing out of her own position so that she can somehow manipulate Niamh's body so that she won't wake up stiff. It's the mothering instinct that she sometimes forgets she has. But Emma's body has little desire to move, despite her own discomfort.

As the film reaches the hour mark she finds herself arching her back, no longer able to sustain that position. She feels her body tensing, one hand pressing against the sofa's arm. It doesn't give her the resistance that she craves. She doesn't notice that Niamh has stirred, or that she is watching her through one eye peeked open. Instead she allows her head to drop against her chest; exhaling slowly. She isn't even certain why she is doing these things. She forces herself to rest back against the sofa.

"I can't believe I dropped off," Emma turns her head to see Niamh making something of an act of rubbing at her eyes, and stretching out her body. It is almost comical the length that she seems to be going to, to appear to have just woken, "Did I miss anything good?" She tries to keep her voice neutral, just the right level of interest. The look in Emma's eye is enough to confirm her suspicion that she has no clue what is going on in the film, "Ah come on Emma, what's really the matter?" Niamh shifts position so that she is more upright. She watches the elder doctor carefully, in the hope of picking up on each nuance of her speech, and manner.

"It's nothing," but Emma knows that this will not be enough to placate Niamh now, and that it was rather pointless to have tried. Already she can see her friend getting ready to question her further, no longer willing to accept futile excuses, "Honestly, Niamh it's just a few cramps," and it's not totally a lie. There have been cramps.

"Cramps?" Of course she would be unconvinced by this. If it were Howard, he would have let it slide not really wanting to delve in to the complexities of female problems. But another female is not quite so easy. If Howard were here, things would be so very different.

"I'm due on," she says the words in a rush. It would make sense. The mild pain is similar to that which has preceded her periods in the past. It is a pattern she had come to know – a day or so of mild pain to start giving her a warning; before becoming more intense for the first two days – to the point where she would sometimes need medication to get her through her work day before tailing off in to nothing. It was a cycle that had been with her for years, until she had feared going in to menopause. That was when things had started to change, "I'm fine, really" she tries to force a smile on to her face as though that will make it much more convincing. "Go back to bed Niamh," she is trying unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"It's almost time to get up," she tries to indicate out of the window, where it has indeed lightened slightly but the stormy sky doesn't truly give an indication that it is nearing daytime. She doesn't want to admit that she is fighting to keep her eyes open. She doesn't need to let Emma know that she awoke when the older doctor had headed downstairs, but that she had tried to give her privacy.

"You're exhausted," How had she not realised before now how tired Niamh was looking. Had she been ignoring the signs as she wallowed selfishly in her own issues? Was she perhaps ignorant of something that had happened in her friend's life, something that Niamh hadn't wanted to burden her with.

"I could say the same about you," Niamh's response is soft. Her tone so filled with caring. Emma rests a hand against her abdomen, applying mild pressure at the pain's epicentre. It had worked in the past to an extent.

"Well we'll both go back to bed," Only Emma knows that she won't sleep. She could lie there counting sheep but it'll come to nothing. All that will happen is her mind will start to spin once more in to overdrive. She'll try to fight against the thoughts but each one she pushes away is usually followed by one she wants even less. Not that anything else stops her mind from tormenting her other than work. She could tackle that pile of papers she had offered to do. She had been asking for extra work to keep her thoughts at bay. Anything that was going, she would take. No matter that it left her exhausted; exhaustion at least meant she had a better chance of getting a few hours of sleep. Distraction kept her from completely losing it.

She doesn't give Niamh chance to argue. She pulls herself up, trying to suppress a groan as her back cries out in protest. It makes her feel so much older than her nearly 45 years. She moves with caution, trying to quell the tension in her body. She doesn't want to raise Niamh's suspicions any further. By the time she makes it to her bedroom, she feels another cramp. The mild wave of pain that comes and goes. She feels the brief tensing and then relaxing of muscles.

Deciding that she should at least make an effort, she lowers herself down on the bed, feeling all the more aware of the empty space next to her; what she wouldn't give to feel Howard's arms around her.


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't quite know how I feel about this part, and I hope that it is ok.**

She doesn't sleep. She doesn't even attempt to count sheep or any of the other tricks for inviting sleep. She tries to clear her mind of all thoughts; to slip in to state of nothingness. It is strange how she can feel so very empty and yet still be plagued by so many thoughts. She cannot even put it in to words. Those around her try to get her to explain, but how can you explain something that you cannot understand yourself.

She lies on the bed, trying to ignore the cramping sensation. It's possibly getting worse, or perhaps she is just more aware of it. Tensing in anticipation rather than because it happens. At some point she has curled herself in to the fetal position, though she doesn't recall quite when. She keeps one hand trapped against her abdomen, locked in place by her thighs. It keeps a pressure against the cramps when they come but it isn't really enough. She needs someone rubbing her back. She needs strong arms around her, and whispered words of comfort.

Not that she has ever really had that. She should be used to dealing with things alone, but the all to brief glimpse in to a world of being with Howard had left her feeling much more vulnerable now. She should be able to carry on as normal, rather than being curled up wishing for a ghost to appear.

She runs through in her mind the possible diagnoses that her colleagues would offer, and checks them off as she rules them out. She can almost hear their voices. Appendix would be one of the first, but she knows that is not it. For one thing the pain is primarily to the left of her abdomen; for another she no longer has hers. She is certain too that she has no infection; she could have gallstones but she isn't convinced. She doesn't have an ulcer, or a hernia. And yet she is undeniably in pain.

"Emma," She hears the somewhat hesitant knock at her bedroom door, before it creaks open a crack to allow Niamh's voice to filter through. Had she groaned out loud and caught the attention of her colleague. She truly hopes that she didn't. She doesn't want Niamh to see her like this.

"I'm fine," she tries to say the words as convincingly as humanly possible, but the approaching cramp causes her voice to change on the final syllable. It's enough that the door is opened fully, and to have the red haired doctor coming to kneel at the side of the bed. Her face is filled with concern, but Emma can see in her eyes that her doctor's brain is working.

"You've a funny idea about being fine," There is a light touch of humour in her tone. Emma isn't sure she knows what being fine is anymore really. Is fine having the ever-present ache in her chest? Will there ever come a time when she doesn't have that, or is it now just a part of her normal? It had settled upon her in the hours following Howard's death, as she had tried to come to terms with losing both her partner and her child. It had been cemented in the moment when she had signed the consent for her baby to be cremated. Some days it was worse than others. Some days it weighed so heavy that she could barely breathe. It physically hurt to draw air in to her lungs, and she wondered how long she could survive without air, "Come on Emma, this isn't right"

"Its cramps," She deadpans. What would she do if the situation was reversed? She doesn't like the answer that comes in to her mind. She knows that Niamh is only here because she cares. It strikes her truly how lucky she is to have her. Her eyes momentarily fill with tears, and she desperately tries to blink them away. At least Niamh will attribute them to the pain and not her strange emotional response. It shouldn't make her emotional to think about someone caring for her. She knows that there are people to whom she matters; that her worth didn't die with Howard and the baby. But she does feel so alone.

"and you're certain it's nothing more …" There are so many things that Niamh could list. Countless diagnoses; so many emergency situations flashing through her mind. She fears freezing and not being able to help her friend. She can hope that it is nothing serious but each and every idea that flicks in to her mind is worse than the last.

As a cramp rolls across her body, Emma can barely hold back a whimper. She rocks slightly in the bed, trying to increase the pressure against her lower abdomen but it is nowhere near enough. When it passes she is tense, and shaking. Her breathing ragged. She squeezes her eyes tightly shut. It is worsening. It is undeniable that, that is the case. It takes her a minute to finally open her eyes, to meet the concern in Niamh's.

"We need to get you to St Phil's," she has her mobile phone in hand, ready to make the call to the hospital. Emma knows that it is the most sensible thing to do, but the mere thought of going to St Phil's is enough to send her in to a panic. The building haunts her. She sees Howard on the floor, the team around him, failing each time to bring him back. She hears her own desperate pleas for them not to stop. She hears the echo of the midwife's voice telling her that the baby has no heartbeat. She shakes her head, trying to clear it of these things, "This could be serious Emma,"

"I'm a doctor, Niamh," She narrows her eyes, "this is nothing," she tries to shift her position. She wants to show that she is in control. She could use her experience to outrank the younger doctor. She knows that it is more than premenstrual cramps now. Even at their worse, it has never been like this. But she is also confident in the knowledge that it isn't a number of other things, "it'll pass"

"You can't know that," There is a sense of desperation in the younger doctor's tone that she tries hard to disguise. As the cramp returns, Emma feels her heart rate quicken. Beads of sweat form on her hairline, and she can feel her sleepwear sticking to her body. She tries to focus on her breathing. She pulls air in to her lungs, counting for four seconds as she holds it there before she exhales slowly. She tries to do this as the pain continues its assault on her body. When finally it fades away, she feels her muscles relax. She allows her breathing to fall in to a more natural pattern.

"You can run me a bath," When finally she trusts herself to talk, she says the words and watches the look of horror that passes over Niamh's face as she tries to process the request, "A hot bath used to help with cramps," she tries to make it sound as though she has been through this before. She tries to instil a confidence with her tone, but she knows it falls short. She hasn't experienced pain like this before; or if she has she has chosen to block it from her mind.

"I don't think …" Niamh starts to talk, but Emma fixes her with a much sterner look than she has given before, "If you're sure …" of course the younger doctor sounds uncertain. She is likely to be running scenarios through her mind, imagining herself having to drag the unconscious Emma from the tub. It's a scenario that Emma finds equally horrifying. She wouldn't want anyone to see her naked form; let alone anyone that she has to work with. Even the paramedics who came to her aid she could potentially have to work with professionally at a later date.

"Please," She dislikes having to say the word, and in particularly the almost pleading way that she says it. Almost uncertainly Niamh moves from the room in to the bathroom, but to her relief Emma begins to hear the sound of the water running.

When the pain returns, it causes her chest to constrict. It is almost too much for her body to handle. It seems to take away her body's ability to do even the most crucial of functions like breathing. It is frightening. The feeling of having to fight to breath. She has curled more tightly in to the fetal position. Every muscle in her body tensed.

It passes just before Niamh reappears, and Emma has to fight to straighten her body in the bed. She doesn't want to give away how much that last cramp took out of her. She isn't even sure how she is going to walk in to the bathroom, but she knows she has too. She cannot ask for Niamh's help to move. She cannot let herself seem that weak, but even worse it would surely be the final straw.

She moves slowly. Every muscle in her body crying out as she shifts herself from lying to standing. Her legs seem unstable as she tries to walk; fighting to keep her posture erect. She knows that each step is being scrutinised by Niamh. She prays that she can make it to the bathroom before the next pain arrives; that she can shut the bathroom door before Niamh can see. Each and every step takes a marathon effort.

Making it in to the bathroom, she shuts the door quickly hearing Niamh's protests. Her fingers grip the sink as the pain returns. Her upper body lurching forward, bending her almost double. She fights to keep herself standing; fearing that she will end up in a crumbled heap on the floor. She counts the seconds as she tries to hold each intake of breath; tries to concentrate on anything other than the pain that seems to consume her.

She doesn't even know what the time is, or how long she has been dealing with this. She doesn't know how much more she can cope with either. When it's over she pulls the drenched clothing from her body, feeling the shock of cold air on her damp skin. She shivers involuntarily.

She climbs carefully in to the bath. The hot water causing a sharp intake of breath, a stark contrast to the cold that she had experienced seconds before. The hot water soothes her aching muscles slightly. She sinks down in to it, allowing it to wash over her sore body. She could slip down fully beneath the water, and wait for the darkness to wash over her. It would certainly give her relief from the pain. In the moment as consciousness fades, she wonders if Howard will appear before her, or perhaps it would be Sam. No it would be Howard, clutching a small bundle tenderly in his arms.

The pain returns too quickly, before she has had time to recover from the last. The water hasn't been given enough time to work it's magic. Each and every muscle tense, as she braces her feet against the tub. Blood pounds in her head. Her back arching up out of the water. She is aware of tears leaking from the corners of her tightly shut eyes. She fights against making a sound. She could scream out with the pain but she doesn't even let herself whimper. She balls her hands in to tight fists.

And then it is over. She tries to relax back down in to the water. She rests her head back against the cold porcelain, trying to rest for a moment. She knows the pain will return. She doesn't even try to convince herself that, that was the last one. She doesn't know when it will end, or how. She cannot even begin to envision what will bring about her permanent relief from this gut-wrenching torment. Her body convulses with it; muscles spasm in her abdomen with the pains return. She tenses and braces herself in the water, but it isn't enough. There is too little time to recover her strength before the next assault. Her body is rigid in the water. Breathing strained by her constricted chest.

"I can't do this," She isn't aware that she speaks the words aloud until she hears Ayesha's voice on the other side of the door. She had almost forgotten that the nurse was home. She hears the way the nurse almost hollers Niamh's name, resulting in the sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom and Emma's desperate pleas for them not to come in. It is to no avail though.

"We need to get you to hospital Emma," Niamh has adopted a no nonsense tone and Emma doesn't think that she has the strength to argue with her now. Not that she has time to even try. The pain returns full force, worse than before. Her spine arches and her knees bend causing her body to bow in the water. She shudders as she tries to stop herself from crying out with the agony; it is hard to see it as simply pain any longer. She fights hard against it, even when she hears Niamh telling her to go with her body. She hears Niamh telling Ayesha to ring an ambulance, and the sound of the nurse's feet moving away. The sounds are distant, and yet they cause the pounding in her head to increase.

"I'm going to be sick," She manages to choke out the words, as the overwhelming nausea overcomes her. The burning in her abdomen reaching a fever pitch. She tries to shift her body but she can barely move until her muscles finally relax. Desperately, she tries to pull herself out of the bath. Her movements are uncoordinated and she is aware that she is covering Niamh in water. But she can feel the rise of bile. Her body desperately trying to retch. She feels arms around her, trying to help her. If she were not already flushed, a blush would rise in her cheeks at Niamh having to do this.

She just manages to fall to her knees in front of the toilet before she vomits. Her muscles screaming as she does so. They have already done too much. Another wave of agony causes her to vomit more forcefully, Niamh rubbing her back gently. It doesn't stop the sob that rises in her throat, as her body betrays her. She knows that Niamh is still there, still being her reassuring kind hearted self but it doesn't reduce the self-hatred that Emma feels.

"Go," She tries to command the girl. She should be alone, left in this mess. Using what little strength she has she pushes at Niamh, causing her to rock backwards.

"I'll go and find out when that ambulance will be here," the Irish doctors voice is soft. She doesn't want to leave, and she waits a second for Emma to ask her to stay but she remains silent. Huddled on the bathroom floor, waiting for the next round of this battle.


	3. Chapter 3

**This part is shorter than I had anticipated it being. Hopefully it is ok :-)Apologies for any errors.**

Emma shivers. There's a chill in the area, not helped by the slick wet surface of her skin. She feels dirty, huddled on the bathroom floor. She should pull herself up and sink back in to the bathwater, but she doubts it will make her feel clean. Even if she could cleanse her skin, it will not bleach her mind. Nor will she be able to erase the knowledge that Niamh had been with her; that she had been on the floor beside her. Of course the Irish doctor will be professional with her, but it will not take away the fact that she has seen her this way.

Carefully, she reaches out to drag a towel down towards herself. But it is out of her reach. She curses under her breath. She is fearful of moving. Her muscles might betray her; already taxed from whatever hell this is, they may fail to support her weight. Then she would be stuck having to get Niamh back to rescue her; to give her pitying looks as she is shipped off to hospital. Perhaps this is the beginning of the end for her. Once she has left this place on a stretcher, she may never return. She never quite imagined that it would be like this. Perhaps Howard was lucky to have gone so quickly, and not had to endure a battle such as this. If she gives up fighting now, will she get to be with him quicker?

Her body shivers more violently. She shouldn't let herself think this way. Of course she isn't dying, and yet there is little explanation for this. Cautiously she pulls herself on to her knees, aware that she has had a gap between the bouts of pain. Perhaps it was over. Her body have rid itself of whatever toxin she had ingested. Standing she is aware of just how wobbly her legs are – an image flickering in to her mind of Chris taking his first tentative steps and how he had wobbled as she does now. Her baby, Howard's baby, would have marched from the get-go. He would be teasing her now. She can almost hear his voice, but the words are blurred. He is blurring in her mind, and she desperately tries to cling out to him. She dreads the day when she cannot recall his accent, when he has blurred so completely that he could be anyone. Each day the edges of him become softer. Each day it gets a little bit harder; she has to strain that little bit more.

A wobbly step is all she needs to take before she can make a grab for a towel. She wraps it around her upper body; aware of just how much everywhere seems to hurt. Her arms seem to have lost all their strength. She swallows hard, trying to work out what her next move should be. She cannot stay in here forever, and yet she doesn't want to leave and face the waiting audience. Turning she is aware of the water pooling on the ground; a mixture. It taunts her. She grabs at another towel, and with as much force as she can muster manages to throw it over the offending pool of liquid.

As it leaves her hand, the pain returns; and try as she might she cannot stop herself from crying out with her. The force of it causes her knees to bend, forcing her in to awkward squat, her arms desperately trying to find purchase on something to stop herself crumpling to the ground. Her breathing comes in quick pants; she should be trying to breathe through it but it caught her by surprise after the brief respite.

The force; this sudden pain causes another bout of sickness. It comes from nowhere, and she sobs as her entire body seems to scream from the effort. Every muscle in her body is tight; muscles contracted. She is being drained of energy. It reminds her of the feeling after Challenge Max; every part of her completely spent. But unlike then she cannot see an end in sight. There is nothing that she can do to bring relief.

She feels as though somebody has reached deep inside of her, and is cruelly twisting and pulling at her insides. An iron vice like grip takes hold of her, squeezing until she thinks that she can take it no longer. Even when it relaxes, the pain doesn't leave her entirely. It lingers like a pulse.

"Hey," She doesn't even realise the noises she has been making until she feels Niamh's arms around her again. She wants to shake her away, and yet she doesn't have the strength to do so, "There's been an accident, we …. They can't get an ambulance to us yet" her words come in a frantic panicked rush, "we need to get you to hospital, Emma"

"I don't think I can move," Emma's words are little more than squeak. She cannot comprehend how she would tackle the stairs on her shaking legs. She doubts she could sit constrained by a seatbelt in the car. It would be a new form of torture for her body. She mutters a slow curse as the pain creeps back over her. This time she drops completely to her knees, guided ever so slightly by Niamh to cushion the blow. Her body had forced her down. She rocks with the pain; bites down hard on her lip. Eyes squeezed tightly shut.

But the pain changes. It is as intense; the iron vice taking no mercy. But now there is a pressure, deep within her. She whimpers. She wants to whisper desperate words, but the embarrassment prevents her. She tries blowing out her breath as though that will alleviate the pressure within her, somehow making all of this go away.

"I need to examine you Emma," She tries to switch in to a professional tone, but she cannot mask the emotions that course through her.

"Can you give me a minute?" When finally the pain goes, though the pressure remains, she manages to speak. She turns her head slightly to look at the toilet, as though that will give Niamh the message she needs before she gives her a rather pointed look.

"I don't think that's a good idea …." She doesn't want Emma to realise how terrified she is about this. Ayesha had told her how long it was going to be before an ambulance could get here, and while she isn't going to tell Emma the reality of that situation; she needs to understand what she is dealing with her. She has tried to tick of the symptoms; the pain coming in waves, the vomiting, and the sudden loss of bladder control. The last one was confusing her the most. Now things seem to be shifting again.

"I need …" but her words are stolen by the return of the pain. She feels the pressure increase, more intense than the last time. She closes her eyes tightly against it. Her body seems to be acting of its own accord and she fights so desperately against it. She doesn't want anything to happen; not in front of Niamh. If only she had given her the privacy; allowed her to get herself on to the toilet.

"You need to let me help you," Niamh doesn't speak until she has managed to open her eyes again. She doesn't understand of course. She doesn't feel Emma's desperate; how could she? She has never been in this position before; but then neither has Emma. What reason does her body have for acting in this way?

"No …." She tries to say something more but the pressure comes and with it there is the burn. A deep intense burning that engulfs her. She blows out harder than before, desperate for it to dissipate. It is enough that it could swallow her whole. The pressure against it deepens. She winces and gasps. Her eyes widen. Words jumble in her mind. Memories flash in and out, making little sense. Her body seems to know what it is doing. She has felt this before and yet she cannot let herself grasp at that knowledge. It is too painful; almost more painful than this experience. It's stupid; inconceivably stupid. And yet she remembers.

The pain passes, but the sting and the pressure remain. It is still almost enough to steal her breath. "Emma, I think …" but the older doctor shakes her head. She cannot let herself hear those words. She cannot let herself think it; cannot let herself have hope only for that to be followed by the crush of disappointment. She can see the look in Niamh's eyes, and she has to force herself to look away. It is only when she feels Niamh wrap her arms around her that she realises that she is crying.


	4. Chapter 4

**This isn't quite how I expected this part to turn out. I hope that it is still ok. Thank you to anyone reading this - I really do appreciate it. I think there will be another 1 or 2 parts after this one. Apologies for any mistakes!**

Niamh rocks her colleague gently; holding her as she would a child. She wants to whisper soft reassuring words, but nothing suitable comes to mind. Not with Emma in this state. Instead she murmurs softly. When the pain returns, the older doctor tenses in the younger's arms; trying to fight her body with every conscious fibre of her being. She moans low in her throat.

"Don't fight against it," Her words are barely audible but loud enough that they reach Emma's ears. She relaxes her arms, allowing Emma to break free of her hold; now unable to be contained. Her eyes are squeezed tightly shut but the tears continue to leak from their corners. Her face is stained by the tracks of them. Beads of sweat line her hair line.

"Make it stop," her plea is spoken to no-one in particularly. It comes breathlessly, desperately. She doesn't look at her colleague, even if she did she doubts that her eyes would focus on her. She rubs at her face, trying to remove the evidence of her tears, but she now it is pointless. The liquid sign of her weakness will return as soon as the pain does.

She cannot do this; not today. The burning is too intense; but she knows that it will get worse. The logical part of her brain is desperately trying to grasp the truth, but she fights it, tries to push the memories and the knowledge away.

"You know that isn't going to happen Emma," Niamh keeps her voice soft, but there is an edge to it. She has her head tilted ever so slightly, as though she is trying to understand what is going on inside of her friend's head. But how could she?

"Please," She despises the way that she says the word. How her voice changes as the pain edges back. It tries to swallow her whole; tries to force her to scream out but she refuses to give it the satisfaction. She bites hard on her lip. It hurts but at least that pain she can control. Her eyes squeeze shut once more. Her body tries to push against the pressure. She tenses further. She can't not fight, she can't give in to this.

"Emma," when Niamh is sure that the pain has gone, she takes her friend's face in her hands, turning it gently. She forces her in to eye contact, "You're in labour," she allows her eyes to travel over her colleagues still naked today, knowing that Emma is past the point of caring. Later, she will be filled with a self hatred for it, but now she is consumed with pain; with a situation that she cannot bare to face.

Her eyes try to find any evidence of the baby that will soon be here; but Emma's figure is slim. Perhaps there is the slightest of bulges at her abdomen; but it could equally be a figment of her imagination – wanting to see it there.

"I can't …" The words come out in a sob. She would know if she had been labouring; hell she would have known if she were pregnant. No – still pregnant. She is a doctor. What sort of doctor doesn't know that her pregnancy has continued; doesn't recognise that she is in labour until her body tries to push free a child.

"Is it … I mean …." Niamh tries to formulate the sentence but she cannot find a way of saying the words. She doesn't want to pry in to Emma's private life, but she needs to know what she is dealing with. She wants to be prepared if this baby is to be premature. She had been certain there were no men in Emma's life; not since Howard – but if there had; and it had caused this then she could be dealing with a baby who was too early.

She doesn't know how Emma would cope if that was to be the case. She has been through so much and that would surely be the last straw. Niamh herself doesn't know how she will cope with holding such a fragile baby in her hands, and knowing that she cannot do anything. She fears too that she will be forced to resuscitate while her friend watches; how much would be at stake with her efforts. Even if the baby is old enough; strong enough – there has been no care to this point. No one monitoring it to ensure its health. There are so many unknowns and she struggles to keep her heart rate under control, to keep her face calm.

"How pregnant are you?" It seems to be the safest way of asking. She watches as Emma's face changes in response to the next contraction. She should probably be timing them; working out how close together they are, how long they last. She should update the ambulance as to the new reality of this situation but she is frozen to the floor. She tries to work out how long Emma has been fighting against her body's attempts to push; tries to work out how long she has before she'll be expected to act.

"I'm not," But it's getting harder to ignore the pressure and the burning. It's getting harder for her to push away the flashbacks to the day she had given birth to Chris. They say that you forget the pain; but it seems that she had just locked it away in the recesses of her mind.

"You won't be for much longer, Emma, but I need to know if your baby is early," She tries to keep her tone level.

"My baby died," The words come in a bitter tumbled rush, "John died; you were there Niamh you saw him" how could she forget that day? The pain, the blood. They'd had to arrange things. The baby had been cremated. He should have been buried with his father; safe with the man who loved him so very much. She had loved him too of course. But she hadn't been able to keep him safe.

"So this baby is …" Niamh starts to speak, but the end of her sentence of stolen by the next of Emma's contractions. This one seems harder than the last; Emma's ability to fight against lesser

"John was my baby," she sobs the words when she can finally speak, "and he died 23 weeks ago," She had been nearly 15 weeks when she had lost him. It meant at the very least that the baby was term. But that didn't take away that the fact she'd received no antenatal care; that she had been living her life as normal.

"I know Emma," She places a hand on her friend's shoulder, her touch gentle, "but you are in labour," but Emma cannot respond. Her body is overtaken again. Muscles contracting down, pushing downwards. She feels the pressure and the burn increase. She feels her body stretching to accommodate a body passing through. She doesn't fight against it this time. There is no fight left inside of her. She lost John. She had held him for a moment; seen enough to know that he was a boy. Howard's boy.

But now she is giving birth. Someone she had remained pregnant, and not known. She had failed this baby as she had failed John. She has let Howard down but not treasuring moments with this child; moments he would be adored. She has not felt movement; has not felt her body change. She has not lived her life cautious of the baby she carried. She has done nothing to protect this baby. And now she must give birth and be its mother.

Unless … as the contraction fades her mind fixates …. She may not get to raise this child. They have no clue as to whether this baby has a beating heart, nor how well it has grown within her. She may have caused it's growth to be restricted; she may have done something that caused this baby to leave. She should have known. She should have nurtured this blessing; this part of Howard that she carried with her. Now she could face the loss all over again.

She'll have to hold another child in her arms. This one larger than its brother, but just as still; just as perfect.

The next contraction rears its head, and instinctively Emma bears down. Pushing hard against the pain, knowing that the harder she pushes the quicker she can bring this to its conclusion. Her body is exhausted, but she has no choice but to push. The burn and stretch of her tissues builds in intensity. She blows out her breath before she pushes down again. It is close. She needs to scream out, but she doesn't. She doesn't have the energy to scream and push.

"I can see the top of the baby's head," There is such a mix of emotion in Niamh's voice as she says the words, but Emma doesn't need to be told. She can feel it. She has felt how it has stretched her. How it rocks back when the contraction passes; when she lets out her breath. She hasn't felt her baby before now. How has she ignored it? Has she missed it or has the baby not been moving?

She doesn't get anywhere near enough respite before the next contraction comes, and she has to push again. She feels it move forward within her. She pushes harder, bringing it closer. She tries to hold it when she lets out her breath between pushes.

"Breathe Emma," Somehow Niamh's voice reaches her ears, and she fights hard not to push though her body wants so desperately to do so. But she knows. She knows that Niamh's words mean that the head is being born. She forces herself to breathe through the pain. Tears leak from her eyes. The burn is indescribable.

"Oh," She hears the gasp from Niamh as the head emerges. She opens her eyes to see the look on the Irish doctor's face as she gazes down at the baby. She feels the baby turn, moving both in and outside of her body. She knows that the next contraction is close; that with it the rest of this child will slip in to the world.

"Hold her," She manages to say the words, hoping to force Niamh out of her rapture. It seems to do the trick as she blinks rapidly, before moving her hands to the baby.

"You said her," there is a smile in Niamh's voice as she says the words, briefly transported back to an evening on the sofa when Emma had said those words. Back before everything had happened. And now she holds in her hand the head of this miracle baby.

"I …" but her sentence remains unformed. She pushes down with the contraction, and feels the baby's body leaving her own. She breathes hard and fast. Relief overpowering her, with the birth of the baby. She knows that the contractions will return; that she will still have a placenta to deliver. But right now she is looking down at the baby in Niamh's arm; the baby still attached to her by the pulsating cord. The baby with the rose buds lips and the unmistakable quiff of dark hair atop her head. The baby who is the colour of a doll's cotton body. The baby who she has yet to hear cry, whose body is floppy in the shaking hands the hold her. The baby who is without a doubt their daughter.


	5. Chapter 5

**I'm sorry this has taken so long. I've known how I wanted to write this part but I just couldn't seem to get it to flow - hence why it is shorter than I had planned. This fic is nearly at it's end now. I hope that this part is ok.**

Time stilled, and yet the world continued to revolve as Emma shivered on the bathroom floor. The order of events blurred before her eyes, the words became muffled in her ears. She saw Ayesha appear and disappear; like a flick book character, there was no fluidity to her movement. One moment she was there, and the next she was gone before she returned with another item that Niamh, or at least Emma presumed it was Niamh, requested.

The baby's tie to her was severed. She moved her shaking hand to touch the cord; the very thing that had allowed the baby – her baby – to grow and develop and felt as it stilled. Its pulse fading, as it died between her fingertips; it's purpose served. How had her body done this? How had she managed to sustain this child without knowing?

She had failed this baby, just as she had failed her twin. She could have done so much more for this precious girl. She should have loved her, cherished each moment of their time together. She had failed John because she had discovered his presence too late, and now she has consigned his sister to the same fate.

The baby has remained still in her friend's shaking hands. How many precious minutes since she had been born; since her lifeline had been cut? Had it even been minutes or merely seconds? Her perfect body makes no attempt at drawing breath, at letting out the wail of a newborn first exposed to their world's harsh air.

She should already have known this beautiful girl. They would have shared moments together; those private moments when the baby would have danced and played within her abdomen. She would have smiled to herself; this secret special bond between them. She could have sat, hands pressed to her abdomen, telling this little life of the father who had loved her so very much. She would have choked back tears as she imagined the ghost of his hands on hers; the reminder of how much she had lost but how much she still had to live for.

And what hope this child would have brought. She would have been a beacon of light in those dark days; not just for herself but for those who had also loved Howard. Oh how they would have treasured her; Emma herself would have been treated like glass; so breakable and yet strong. She would have bemoaned it, but she would have known too that it was love for her child that made them act that way.

Her child. It doesn't seem real, and yet she knows it is undeniable. She watches, with fixed eyes, as her friends start to work on this tiny life. Shaking fingers press in to a tiny chest wall. She wants to cry out, beg them not to hurt the girl; who seems too small to have to withstand this. But if it weren't for her own stupidity; her own lack of care this wouldn't be happening.

It is her fault that this baby lies so quiet. She loses count of the ways that she has caused this. All of those things that she had done to John, and more besides in the weeks since his passing. She had never heard this girl's beating heart and been reassured by its steady rhythm. She'd not felt Ruhma's hands pressed against her abdomen assessing the baby; nor had she felt the baby react in annoyance at the midwife's touch. How would she have felt in the scanning room without Howard by her side, to hold her hand in his; to squeeze it tightly until they both knew that everything was alright. Would she have turned her head expecting to see him there, and been forced not to cry when he wasn't?

Oh Howard. He didn't deserve this any more than their baby did. What would he think of her now; after all he had done for her. She had failed him in failing their child. He had given her this gift and now. Now she is lying as her father and brother had done. Her body so much larger than her brothers, but so much smaller and more fragile that her father's. Oh how tiny she would have looked cradled against chest, in his strong arms. She would have felt safe; protected.

She couldn't offer her the same. Even now what is she doing for her daughter? She is passive; watching, waiting. She should draw her gaze away, but how can she when it is her doing? And it is not only the baby, but her friends. The shaking figures that fight so valiantly. Though heads are bowed, she sees the tracks of tears; has watched tiny droplets fall on to the baby's fragile body.

She is shaking herself. Body cramping still. A reminder that the process is not yet complete. The vessel that kept her daughter alive still needs to be delivered. Around her, she feels the damp of blood but she does not look. It does not matter now how much she has lost. She is not the important one here.

She shrinks back, making herself smaller. Her body curling slightly against the waves of pain. It is nothing less than she deserves. How long has it been now? Too long she is certain; and yet time no longer holds any meaning to her at all.

In a perfect world she should have been cradling her pink newborn in her arms, breathing in that scent that only a baby possesses. She should have been drinking in each and every feature of the child she had known for so many weeks, but was only now meeting. The child who knew every beat of its mother's heartbeat.

Because this baby knew her. It had grown beneath her heart; been with her every moment; and yet she knows nothing of this baby. Has she had hiccups inside her belly? Was this tiny girl already a thumb sucker, when was her preferred time to wake and play? Was it this little girl that had protested when Emma had eaten something her daughter had disliked, or had it really been an upset stomach for another cause?

She has done nothing to deserve the miracle that was this second chance, and now she has scuppered it. She pleads a silent apology to Howard. She can almost see his face before hers; that look is almost enough to kill her. And she deserves that.

There is a shift in the two other women. Fingers that had worked so hard fall quiet against the baby. Her eyes blur. She sees the ghost of movement in those fingers before her vision fails her.


	6. Chapter 6

**I hadn't intended to update this quite so quickly. I think there will be one more part after this one but it probably won't be up for a few days at least. I hope this is ok.**

"Emma," Somewhere in the outer edges of her brain she can hear her name being called; trying to drag her back in to the conscious world. She desperately tries to fight against it. She doesn't want to be pulled back. It is safer here.

Pictures flicker through her unconscious mind, and she is comforted by them. She sees Howard's smiling face; the look in his eyes – so full of love. She can almost hear him whispering that he loves her. It's almost as though he is there with her, and she doesn't want to leave. She doesn't want him to disappear again. But the look of love is a false one. He wouldn't look like that he knew. He is fading away from her, and there is nothing she can do to hold on to him.

She is returning. Her body is coming back to her, and the voice calling her is getting louder. Her eyes flicker open, and slowly focus on Niamh's face. She forces herself up, ignoring the way her head whirls dangerously; the threat of unconsciousness returning. It doesn't matter if she slips again. She feels her friend's hands rest on her shoulders, trying to keep her down but she uses every last ounce of strength that she has to resist.

She needs to see her. The baby. Now that she is no longer being held by Niamh; no longer subject to those desperate attempts to save her life. She needs to cradle her in her arms; just as she had held John. He had been so tiny in the palm of her hand, but she had held him against her. Now she would do the same for her daughter.

But the bathroom is empty save for herself and Niamh. Around her body she can see the scarlet pool from the blood she has lost. She tries to mentally calculate the loss, but her mind is fuzzy – and all she can really think about is the baby; and why they have already have her away.

Did they think that would be easier on her? She knows that the girls would try to act in her best interests but did they honestly think it would be better that she didn't get to see her daughter; when she had already been forced to watch them attempt resuscitation. At least cradling her daughter now she'd be able to see her at peace.

Or perhaps they didn't think that she deserved to see her daughter. They took the baby girl away because she was responsible for her death. Would they blame her in that way? They would be within their right. She certainly blamed herself, but it hurt her all the same. The crushing feeling in her chest was somehow worse than the contractions that had wracked her body for so many hours.

"Breathe, Em," She focuses her attention make on Niamh's face and not on the spot where she had been knelt with the baby. She watches as her younger colleague tries to guide her in her breathing. How fitting that not so long ago she had been trying to convince her daughter to breathe and now she was doing much the same for her.

But it was getting harder to breathe. Her throat seemed to be closing over more with each breath she tries to take. She tries to concentrate on drawing air in to her lungs and exhaling. She tries to follow Niamh's lead, but her chest seems to be burning with the effort.

She moans low in her throat, as another wave of pain washes over her. Her eyes widen as she pushes down once more, feeling as the placenta finally leaves her body. There is a brief moment of relief when it slips out on to the floor. The realisation that her labour is now over; that every part of her daughter is now separate from her body.

She doesn't look at it. She doesn't take her gaze away from Niamh's face. She searches her eyes for hatred, for blame. Surely those emotions should be plain to see. She knows of Niamh's struggles, and today she has put her in the terrible positon of not only having to resuscitate but to do so on a newly born baby. She has forced her to confront this in the worst possible way. But those emotions are not evident in her friend's face.

There is concern and worry. There is so much kindness that it is almost enough to overwhelm Emma. She doesn't deserve kindness. She could understand pity, but not kindness. Oh how there will be pitying looks for her. People will talk in low whispers behind her back; a doctor not knowing. Another loss. Yes there will be so much talk.

How she had feared that talk when she had first discovered her pregnancy and those looks. Now those fears pale in to insignificance. So much has happened since that day, and now she is sitting naked in her bathroom with empty arms. She feels her eyes begin to fill. Everything coming to a head. She wants to go back to the early hours of the morning before all this had happened. She should have gone to hospital; she should have let Niamh check her over properly. Maybe she could have changed the ending to this.

She needs to hold the baby. She needs to apologise to her; just as she had apologised to John. She needed to whisper to that beautiful little girl that her daddy would look after her and her brother. She needed to place a kiss on her head, and tell her that she loved her. That above all else she is so very sorry that she didn't get her chance at life.

But she cannot find the words to speak. Her throat is so very dry, and her tongue feels too large for her mouth. She isn't sure how she has ever managed to do so. It's as though even the most basic of functions have deserted her now. Even the cold no longer seems to be affecting her. She feels so very strange. Suddenly so empty, and yet hadn't she felt empty until this point? She no longer understands. Nothing makes sense anymore.

"Bay-by," somehow she chokes out the word in a voice that sounds nothing like her own. She watches as Niamh blinks, as she swallows. Emma is so very sure she knows why. She doesn't want to have to say the words; to break that news. As doctors, they have had to do it and it is never easy. But this is saying those words to a friend; when you care so much yourself.

"I need to see her," the rough unfamiliar voice speaks again. It shocks Emma to think that it is her speaking; amazes her that somehow she has managed to say more than just the single word. The mere act of speaking seems to burn her throat, as though the words are razor blades. She wants to push up away from the floor; to leave this room and find where her daughter lies. She shouldn't be on her own; she should be held and loved.

But Niamh is keeping her on the ground. Not that she trusts her legs to carry her. She doubts she would make it more than a few steps before faltering. She doesn't trust her body; not now. But staying here is keeping her separate from her daughter. She needs to get to her.

She rocks her body, forcing herself on to hands and knees, pushing Niamh's hands away. She doesn't know how long she has been waiting for Niamh's reply, but it is too long. On aching muscles, she crawls. Each tiny movement causing pain to course through her body but she doesn't let herself stop. She doesn't care that her body is leaking; that Niamh is calling her name. The only thought in her head is getting to her baby; is holding her daughter.

She crawls from the bathroom. The surface changing beneath her knees and hands as she moves out in to the hall. She doesn't know where to crawl now, so she raises her head, looking for an open door before she moves off again. It is so slow; too slow. She needs to make faster progress, but her body won't let her.

It is minutes, she thinks, before she makes it in to the doorway. Her breaths coming in short, sharp pants. She is aching and sore. She raises her head. Her eyes taking too long to focus. She can hear Niamh coming up behind her, presumably to stop her from going any further. She can just about make out Ayesha.

Slowly the nurse turns towards her.

"Emma wanted to see her daughter," Niamh's voice is soft and gentle behind her. Emma can't read the emotions in her tone, but her eyes are glued to Ayesha; to her arms. She moves closer, the nurse bending down to her level. With a shaking hand, Emma touches the bundle of blankets. She is terrified, but she has to do this. She has to do this.

"We need to keep her warm, Em," Niamh speaks softly as Emma feels the bundle being pressed in to her arms. She feels Niamh's arms come around her to support them both as she breaks. If it weren't for those strong arms around her, she is certain she'd shatter completely.


End file.
